


Bolthole Mixtape: Song 3

by ItsSweaterWeather



Series: Bolthole Mix Tape [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, F/M, Inspired by Music, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, Part 3 of series, Series, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Taking the long way to Post-TFP, follows BBC episodic canon, inspired by another work, pre-tfp, simmering feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-21 23:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12468844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: She knew the answer without Sherlock’s fictional baritone lecturing her as she brushed her hair. Molly listened anyway, liking the way his reverb sank into her follicles. Thick with sleep. Mumbly.Shirtless, too. Or so she'd imagined. Multiple times.“Molly, jealousy is a useless emotion and doesn’t equate to fondness in the slightest(‘fondness’ because he’d never use the word ‘love’ - not in a million years - even in her hypothetical).It’s a clear sign of low self-esteem, extreme dependence on one’s partner, feelings of inadequacy…”And on his phantom voice went, ticking off a laundry list of traits with the aid of his long, apparitional fingers.





	Bolthole Mixtape: Song 3

**Author's Note:**

> These two tho... The love-struck pathologist. The love-adverse genius. 
> 
> As for timeline, we're circling The Blind Banker now. Yes, realize that the actual episode takes place in March _2010_ (so sayeth Van Coon's receipts) BUT for the sake of keeping their relationship moving in something resembling real time (without all those pesky hiatuses getting in the way), I've fudged a bit on the year.
> 
> Either way, it's _killing_ me because I know which songs go where for the resolution of this whole thing... and I want so badly to just get 'em right to it! Stat! But... I'm an agony  & angst whore so this mixtape feeds my need to delay gratification. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do plotting & writing them.
> 
> As with previous songs, I had the lyrics but not the tune until I met you. This series is held loosely in place and inspired by [ sunken_standard's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard) exquisite work [So What Was Your Last Girlfriend Like?](https://archiveofourown.org/series/719403)
> 
> And, as with previous songs, this sucker is unbeta'd.

###  [Waiting In Vain - music & lyrics by Bob Marley | sung by Annie Lennox](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yj5CCOzJ7nk)

**March - 2011**

The tin-cup-and-string connecting her treehouse to the club’s only member chimed just before 5 am.

Molly wasn't asleep anyway. Not really. The club member and its chief cook and bottle washer had that in common. But where she put forth a valiant effort, going through the magazine-prescribed rituals promising her a solid six-to-eight hours, Sherlock fought dreamland tooth and nail. He'd hinted at overnight hours passed scrolling through hundred-year-old police reports and brewing chemistry experiments (although his landlady and his flatmate had both ordered him to cease and desist all noxious compounding between the hours of 8 pm and 8 am).

And walking. Endless walking instead of sleeping.

> “And London. She takes excellent care of me," Sherlock said matter of factly. He pushed himself away from the worktop and took one more photo of a Petri dish he'd worked on all afternoon. Lab residency finished for the day, he slipped sculpted shoulders into that massive coat of his (how did he manage such casual grace under the weight of so much wool?) and shoved the phone into one of its deep outer pockets.
> 
> "How do you mean?" she asked, intrigued by his use of the feminine pronoun. She tried for a casual, modulated tone in the midst of the lab's daytime bustle but she'd stationed herself near the door earlier in the day, putting a wide expanse of worktop between them. The distance forced her voice to project out of its comfort zone. It came out as a squeak rather than a simmer.
> 
> Her location was a stab at self-preservation. Not taking her normal spot across from him deprived her of his scent - and the obscene thoughts that came to mind as she watched his fingers fiddle. More than once, she'd imagined herself a knob on the scanner, under his command and twisting this way and that for him.
> 
> Right now, she'd settle for detaining him a bit longer. They'd eased into new territory as of late, friendly chats that felt positively Graham Norton-esque, with all manner of fun and good-natured embarrassment.
> 
> Not really. Not even close. Their conversations consisted of her asking questions, him responding with a single sentence long minutes later; a veritable coffee klatch considering the hours that used to pass between her inquiries and his answers. Even then, he'd either ask her to repeat herself or leave outright, forgetting to respond to her at all.
> 
> Sherlock spun round his side of the worktop searching for his scarf. How quickly she'd come to think of it as 'his side' even though he was neither technician nor physician.
> 
> "Ah. Found it," he mused, winding it around his neck in triumph before heading out.
> 
> She frowned and buried her head in her reports. Today would be one of those days he forgot about her.
> 
> Molly felt him pass; a disarming combination of cool ambient air and body heat. She steeled herself against the urge to follow him, to make herself his puppy, yapping at his heels all the way to the elevators and begging for his attention. _Well done, you!_
> 
> The hinge on the door behind her let out a heavy sigh as it opened. She exhaled through her nose in agreement.
> 
> Their conversation had ended; she'd spend the rest of the day inside her own head sussing out what he'd meant, dampening her thoughts with every manner of female, other than herself, draped all over his... figure.
> 
> Molly shook her head once to clear it of the enigmatic Mr. Muppet. She'd work to do and be damned if he commandeered her afternoon especially when he wasn't there!
> 
> _That's HIM told, old girl!_
> 
> "London," he said from behind, leaning so close that he didn't bother to raise his voice above the working din of the lab, "while not an antidote for insomnia," he continued, for her benefit and her's alone, "does reveal many of her secrets at night. We enjoy each other's company very much."
> 
> Molly felt an acute sense of loss when he straightened and bid the lab a curt _'Afternoon',_ the door closing behind him on a whisper soft _thwick._
> 
> Hours later, the shell of her ear still burned with the ghost of his breath.

Molly lay in bed and, even though she knew him already up, possibly out roaming the streets, she imaged him waking in his bed, unwinding his body with the sleepy elegance of a Daddy Long Legs spider. He’d rummage for his mobile, buried in the warm linens piled around him. Once in hand, he’d poke long limbs out of the tangle and dash off a quick note because he’d thought of her while sleeping.

Reality was less romantic. He’d stumbled upon some archaic autopsy note in a 101-year-old murder case of a magistrate and needed her to decipher the terminology. Or, worse, he’d just finished a night of rousing investigative work around a decapitation and needed some supplies from a legitimate lab. He'd neither bother to check the time nor apologize for waking her. _“Oh, well. Positively lost track of the time. You've no idea how absorbing the comparative analysis of 243 different types of tobacco ash can be.”_

She didn’t. But thinking about him thinking about ash (the variables affecting its texture, color, smell, flake rate...), kept Molly in bed until her snooze alarm buzzed a second time. She shuffled into the bathroom, blurry-eyed and rubbing her scalp, hoping to jump-start her brain. How anyone managed a schedule like his without an ample supply of cocaine she didn’t know.

Tobacco. Cocaine. Sherlock Holmes; from minus to plus three on the quantitive potency scale. _Well done, girl! You’ve gotten yourself addicted to the top performer._

She set her mobile on the edge of the basin and checked the message. At least she’d waited a full twelve minutes this time, her new record.

> You're still for Amsterdam tomorrow? SH

Molly traced the single line of text with a damp fingertip, half-expecting to feel his voice ripple through the screen and burrow into her tendons. If anyone could manipulate electrical currents, it was the world’s only consulting detective.

Even his terse, straightforward messages (were there any other kind?) managed to flood her insides like that first sip of whiskey, suffusing her body with liquid heat and muddling her brain with the kind of fuzzy thinking that championed throwing caution to the wind.

Nothing good came from reaching the bottom of the glass too quickly, though. She’d attended medical school - in Cardiff for goodness sakes! Molly knew how to hold her liquor. But she didn’t get there without a few (many) missteps along the way. She'd paced herself this morning, stretching her routine around interminable minutes before responding.

She made tea - on the hob - as the news briefing droned on. The electric kettle scoffed at her (and rightly so). She shaved her legs and pumiced her winter-worn feet, long overdue on both counts. And, even though she’d already decided upon the pine green corduroy trousers last night, Molly pulled out various work options to pair with her favorite cardi, the one with the appliquéd cherries all over it.

A second _ping_ helpfully reminded her that she’d yet to respond to the first. Molly ignored both.

She made toast, burned it. Made a second serving, watched over the slice of bread as though mastering lazy brekkie was the only thing standing between her and a certificate of achievement from Le Cordon Bleu. She added a few items to her shopping list, then crossed them off after realizing they’d already made their way onto the pad days earlier.

Stalling didn’t become her. Nor did effortless banter; the reason for avoiding his text in the first place. Always the overachiever, she'd composed an alarming number of verbose, nonsensical messages to him in just the three months between Christmas and now. And, ugh! That first 'test message' she'd sent to him right before Christmas!

Even worse, he'd received and read all of them. So said the little 'read' receipts.

 _Get on with it then._ Thirty minutes, give or take, seemed like the right amount of casual _Oh, I didn’t even notice your message_ time. A silly game, Molly knew, but the last time she’d jumped to his electronic finger snap, she'd filled the screen with a novella’s worth of drabble.

He acknowledged her chattiness with a digital silence that spoke volumes.

“Come on, Molly! It’s not a hand grenade.” She grabbed her mobile, not altogether convinced that it wouldn't explode right here in her bath, and began typing, pecking out thoughtful letters, stringing them into something resembling a reply. This was the morning she’d finally succeed at relaxed wit! 

> Yep! 4 whole days of madness with my bestie from uni! Molly n Maddie! Nothing but trouble trouble trouble trouble ;)

Or not.

Hateful gadget! She'd never check her messages again. Ever. She'd revert to carefully edited letters on stationary. Telegrams with nothing but the bare minimum of syllables and a hard 'stop' at the end of each sparse sentence. But then she might miss something urgent from Maddie or something well-meaning from her mum. So, Molly pulled at her hair and let out a silent scream like the character on the front of one of those crazy cat lady birthday cards instead.

Now, in addition to a heartache, she'd given herself a headache. Not helpful.

Why did she always type so much? Always. Always. Always. Always. With multiple exclamation points to boot? A one-word answer was all he required. _Yes._ Or a bland query. _Yes. You?_ Even her signature hyperactive _Yep!_ would’ve sufficed. What possessed her to keep going? And going?

And the little winkie? Gah!

Hard to imagine someone who signed off every message with a capital ’S’ and an equally commanding ‘H’ having ever considered tacking on an ‘XO’ or a smile emoticon to his precisely worded messages.

The exclamation points? A desperate attempt to convey how much incredible fun (!) awaited her, a single woman (!) in the land of hash and fornication (!). Punctuation for the socially inept, those with absolutely no intention of hitting up a coffee shop unless they sold good coffee for a nice change of pace, or engaging in the same daring sexual escapades she’d dabbled in over the summers between terms.

Oh, and the four ‘troubles’? They weren’t witty banter; they were idiotic ramblings more suited to Hickory Dickory Dock. _Snort!_ and  _giggle giggle! Think Mr. Genius will get that all those ‘troubles’ coincided with the length of my trip?_

 _You idiot!_  No wonder the man never responded to her ‘witty banter’. He probably couldn’t make his eyes roll into his head far enough whenever her alert sounded on his end.

But to ignite some gray, cold embers in that hollow thoracic cavity of his, to see him exhibit even the slightest hint of jealousy where she was concerned...

What would that be like?

She knew the answer without Sherlock’s fictional baritone lecturing her. Molly ran the brush through her hair and listened anyway. She liked the way his reverb sank into her follicles. Thick with sleep. Mumbly.

Shirtless, too. Or so she'd imagined. Multiple times.

 _“Molly, jealousy is a useless emotion and doesn’t equate to fondness in the slightest_ (‘fondness’ because he’d never use the word ‘love’ - not in a million years - even in her hypothetical). _It’s a clear indication of low self-esteem, extreme dependence on one’s partner, feelings of inadequacy…”_

And on his phantom voice went, ticking off a laundry list of traits with the aid of his long, apparitional fingers.

Sherlock suffering from feelings of inadequacy and dependency? His reserves of positive self-esteem could power the space station.

A weak image still flickered in her darker recesses, though. A stage littered with set pieces constructed around outdated female conditioning; the green-eyed monster clouding his brilliant blues at the thought of her getting into trouble trouble trouble trouble. Without him.

He’d given her no cause to believe him keen on anything beyond her flat. And, at times, her medical acumen.

 _Molly what’s wrong with you?!_ He’s the stuff of feminist dreams. Sort of. Except for the subtle (and conspicuous) advantages he wielded; the institutionalized baggage of posh male upbringings writ large - and those inherent to males in general. She should be jumping up and down that there existed a man who didn’t call her ‘sweetie’ because of her unfortunate height (which she refused to 'rectify' with the aid of arthritis-inducing heels) or pat her on the head for the same reason.

Somewhere, Sherlock had a mother and, whatever else took place in the Holmes household to shape her sons into such interesting personalities, Molly sensed that she’d done an okay job making sure her youngest child didn’t hold women in outright contempt or, worse, fear them.

He dismissed, tormented, and criticized _everyone_. Women and men occupied equal footing in his world and, from his lofty vantage point, unless their names began with ‘Sherlock’ and ended in ‘Holmes’, mortals couldn’t hope to secure land inside his extreme peripheral vision.

Molly wondered if his disposition toward humanity might’ve softened had he grown up with a sister tagging along, someone with a less micro-observant approach to the world. His brain must ache from the relentless mental hunting and gathering he did. She sensed from his black moods that he collated data against his will at times, unable to stop a primal, pre-programmed need to know _everything._

And make tidy, logical sense of it all.

Except for the things he couldn’t care less about. Like the solar system. Of course, if the mayor of Moon Landing rang him regarding a string of poisonings in the outer craters of the district… no, he still wouldn’t care about how the planets rotated or which one sat closest the sun. He would, however, spend at least half a day testing the effects zero gravity had on heavy toxins.

A sister with piggy tales and an infectious smile would’ve benefited him a great deal if only to lessen the total eclipse of Mycroft’s grim shadow.

Another romantic fantasy. She’d spilt them all over her morning. Time to clean up and get going. She had a lab to supervise, people who counted on her, work she loved. She’d grown well out of drawing hearts all over her notebooks and daydreaming about someday meeting a brilliant, beautiful boy in the heart of the Big Smoke. The fantasy-land stuff of a little girl stuck in the suburban hinterlands of Cambridgeshire.

Besides, in her dreams, the brilliant, beautiful boy fancied her as much as she did him. She’d do well to stick to that game plan when vetting the worthiness of objects of her affection.

Sherlock Holmes was not her boy.

A weekend in Amsterdam made for excellent methadone; an opportunity to resurrect _Molly Hooper, Ace Human._

She checked her phone once more before disappearing under her slouchy green mac and heading out. With luck, he’d let her latest verbal offense go unanswered as he did all the rest.

Her heart sank into her stomach when she realized he’d done just that. 

##  *** * * * ***

**Months prior, around Christmastime - 2010**

“Here. Send me something now so I know you’re comfortable using it.” He handed her mobile back to her. And waited.

Considering the treatise she's sent him previously, he may be waiting for a while.

They sat at the very back of the canteen, at a table with three chairs near the corner. He took the seat so his back rested against the wall, as was the habit instilled in him by Mycroft. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t make that spot his own - no matter the setting. Unless of course, Mycroft had gotten to it first. Their angling and fighting used to drive Mummy out of her head.

Still did.

He'd yet to concoct an excuse to skip out of this year's Christmas dinner that Mycroft hadn't poked holes through. So, in two days time he, like the rest of the city's inhabitants, would head out to the country in an ancient Land Rover (supplied by his ever-helpful big brother) and the two of them would fight over where to sit at table. Never mind that Mummy always set out place cards to avoid such pettiness.

Thank Christ he was old enough, now, to drink gin.

Something like office air conditioning in winter settled in his chest when Molly chose the seat opposite him. Quite right on her part. Made more sense to speak with someone when you faced them straight-on rather than craning one’s head around to the person next to you. His legs would’ve only tangled with hers anyway. And the knee situation always proved problematic for him. He’d need to fold himself into an origami crane to steer clear of her aubergine-clad legs, possibly snagging her tights on the nape of his wool coat in the process.

Better this way.

He noted, with some minor interest, that Molly's outfit was an optimistic choice in both color and style considering that today’s temperature hovered around 5º. She usually opted for thick trousers and shapeless jumpers on cold days…

 _Oh. That’s right._ He’d overheard her earlier, chattering in the lab. _“So Tarique, you’re sure you don’t want me to bring anything to the party tonight except a bottle of wine?”_

Her contributions to tonight’s ‘do confirmed (“Nope. Me and Jess have it all sorted. Oh, and, ah, there’s a guy from IT coming I think you should meet.”), Molly spent the rest of the afternoon speeding through a pile of paperwork at the far end of the center worktop instead of smothering him with her tentative smiles and offers of assistance.

Or coffee.

Or tea for that matter.

He didn’t need either from her, of course; he simply took issue with her skimming reports. She might miss an abnormal result or forget to record a note in her haste. Criminal cases and people’s lives were at stake. Well, their deaths were, anyway.

She usually lavished her paperwork with undivided attention, circling and underlining (and multiple question-marking) with a red felt-tipped pen, the cap of which she held firmly between her front teeth. Or running an unlacquered fingertip over the component values as though they were embossed columns of Braille.

_Not your cases, not your problem._

He wouldn’t doubt it if she did _experience_ the results rather than read them outright. She’d taken his pulse once after he’d gone peaked in the lab. He'd forgetting to eat for twenty-eight hours; she insisted that he take a break in the pathology office and drink some orange juice. He balked at both.

For such a petite woman, Molly Hooper had an intimidating clinical manner. She crossed her arms over her chest and stayed quiet, telegraphing a silent command to submit to her care. He did, undoing his cuff and letting her take his hand. Her fingers stroked the sensitive underside of his wrist, navigating the tangle of veins there. Her touch mesmerized him, the way her brows knit together as she conducted a delicate search for his radial artery.

Her coloring looked so pink and robust against his pale skin... The little digits drifted upward, pushing the cuff he’d folded back _just so_. She advanced up his arm, mapping his anatomy: the ligaments, the tendons, the hard edge of his ulna.

_Reading him._

The anxiety. The doss houses. The loneliness.

He almost begged her to go too far.

 _That way madness lies_. Demons she never needed to see. Or touch…

A Christmas tune warbling over the canteen’s speakers skipped, snapping him back to the present and aborting his trip down that memory lane. He’d avoided all analysis of that afternoon in the lab; the way his body responded to her touch, letting her take control of him; the hurt in her eyes when he’d jerked his arm away as if she'd scorched him.

She had. Her gentleness packed all the power of an automatic flamethrower, able to raze walls he’d built over years of hard work. Solid stone things thirty feet high with spikes sticking out of the mortar and ramparts guarded by clay warriors. He was his own Forbidden City and she was not permitted entry.

And he was a fool for coming down from his tower to camp out in her quirky little treehouse with the postage stamp-sized balcony.

He sighed through his nose, a hard gust of air meant to hurry her along. Honestly, how much time does one person need to send a text? Yes, it was a new application for her, something she’d not used before but, still. Keyboard. Words. Type. Send. Done.

And then she’d leave. Go off to her party. To meet someone.

He glanced around the dining room. The canteen, like the rest of Bart’s, was winding down for the evening; cooks heaved pots of sludge-flavored soup out of the buffet table and back into the kitchens. Pans of beans were removed, presumably to be de-skinned and wrapped up for tomorrow’s breakfast. She’d missed the opportunity to purchase one of those sausage rolls she liked so well. Because of him. The sooner he finished with her, the quicker they could both part ways. He’d walk back to Baker Street, let December sink into his coat, cold and dark. She’d take the Tube to Tarique’s because she always took the Tube. Everywhere.

He wondered how she’d get home if she decided to stay late.

_There’s a man waiting to meet her._

He had work waiting for him. Loads, actually.

Sherlock watched the top of her head, still bent in deep concentration over her mobile, part straight as an arrow through her scalp. Her hair, even under these stark, cool lights, had all the burnished colors of autumn leaves. She’d probably wear it loose tonight, free of its ever-present elastic band. He’d only seen her with it down once. And even then, he’d only caught a glimpse of it through a sliver of open door.

She should wear it down for the party.

_Not your party, not your problem._

His eyes drifted to her shoulders, small and always hidden. Today was no exception. She got lost under the gleaming white lab coat and one of those secondhand jumpers she preferred. He liked her in today's mix of jewel tones, however. They suited her coloring and this outfit had a festive mood to it, he supposed; the teal skirt, the mustard colored sweater, the tights. He could do without the round-collared blouse, however. He shifted in his seat, inching toward her, taking in the texture and weave of her shirt. The pattern was _fine,_ ice-skaters in all manner of outdoor dress, but her clavicle was so pleasing to look at; ashamed to hide those slender bones under stiff cotton. Anatomically speaking, the open collar of a button-down did her collarbones more justice than the buttoned-up round ones.

 _Clavicula._ Latin. 'Little key'…

_Not your bones, not your problem._

Sherlock pushed himself upright. His knees hit the underside of the table, upsetting their oasis.

“Oh, sorry!” She scrunched her face up and typed, then hit send with conviction.

Sherlock fought the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He found it alarming how eager he was to receive yet another one of her long-winded texts.

And keep her in his company for just a little while longer.

##  *** * * * ***

Molly knit her brows together and scratched her brain for something clever to type, a task made more difficult under the weight of his gaze.

“Molly.” His voice bounced off the walls surrounding them, making matters worse.

Time stood still in the midst of all the sad holiday cheer the hospital had forced upon the dining room: speakers crackling with more static than carols, set to a station that never stayed in tune; limp metallic blue and silver and purple streamers hanging from the ceiling panels.

And the minutes flew by, ticking down to that awkward moment when he’d leave, intent on beginning his evening without her snorts or her verbose quicksand mucking up his mobile.

She’d wanted to snag one of the last sausage rolls before the kitchen shut down for good but that meant excusing herself from Sherlock’s company. If she did that, who knew when she’d see him again, considering that Christmas was in two days.

_Did he even celebrate Christmas?_

No. Probably not. At least not in the same way her family did, with caroling, silly games, and queueing up at King’s College Chapel on the 23rd to snag one of the precious few seats for Christmas Eve service. Mum packed hot chocolate and cold sandwiches for the wait. Dad packed a flask so they could share a little nip after the sun went down. He became the most popular man in the queue once word got round.

They’d not do that this Christmas, though, dad’s condition having worsened. Still, there’d be too many puddings, not enough chairs for all the guest, and her and Kat arguing over who got to sit at the ‘big table’ this year.

She imagined Sherlock Holmes doing _Holmesian_ things. He'd read Plato by a fire at ye olde family manse with an ancient hunting dog at his feet. Or he'd wait for Cook or someone to announce that a _just-so_ dinner was ready. Maybe a starter of smoked salmon (Molly was in charge of the squash and pumpkin soup at her family's gathering), a main meal of prime rib (while her family munched on turkey), and beautiful sides including a Gratin dauphinoise (her mum just threw potatoes, carrots and Brussels sprouts in a roasting pan and called it a day).

 _Molly’s_ Holmeses never finished off dinner with an ordinary Christmas pud; they imported a show-stopping trifle from the village baker and retired to the library for whiskeys by the fire - in big leather chairs.

Well, her family _did_ do the whiskey bit - with half of them sitting on the floor to be nearer the fire as the lounge had a nasty draft.

And they _did_ do Christmas pudding, the crazy “everything in the pot” kind with booze-sodden apricots, raisins, and figs. And she loved it.

Yet more reason to put Sherlock on a high shelf, bring him down and dust him off only when she felt particularly naughty and in need of a nice piece of eye candy to get her through the night. They were not compatible.

Still, she wanted to impress him. Dazzle him with her wit. Make him catch his breath when he looked at her.

She’d already mastered making his eyes roll out of his skull.

Mostly, though, she just wanted to make him laugh, see the corners of those same eyes crinkle, and hear the rumble roll through his chest.

He never laughed.

Smiled? Yes. Well, no. Not really. That thing he did with his cheek muscles and his mouth, the tight-lipped expression accompanying successful deductions or effortless displays of his impressive knowledge? That did not qualify as a laugh. Or a smile.

She had, however, once witnessed a spark of something in Sherlock’s changing eyes when he directed a smirk her way, something she wanted to ignite to full flame, dance in until she burned.

 _“Molly,”_ he repeated. Dry ice burned on contact, too.

How did he manage boredom with such…intensity?

“Oh, sorry!” She hit ‘send’ and regretted her words the instant a little green tick mark appeared next to them. She snapped the keyboard shut in mortification and hoped for a lighting bolt to find her here, at the very corner of Bart’s basement canteen.

Barring that, maybe she’d spontaneously combust before he received the message and all would be well.

“So, em…why am I using this…ah…encryption thing again?” Everything Molly knew about self-destructing messages and alternative communication channels she’d learned from Tom Cruise. She had a vague notion that Sherlock’s insistence on their correspondence going forward be conducted via this service had more to do with his big brother doing Big Brother things, not because thrilling car chases and a sexy game of cat and mouse through picturesque cities were in her future.

He stared at his screen. “Hmmm?”

Was that a question? Or just some random noise? She blew out a long breath before answering. She knew he didn’t like her prying, _anyone’s_ prying, but she couldn’t help herself. “I mean, are _you_ under surveillance?”

“Constantly,” he shrugged.

He didn’t seem paranoid. On the contrary. Sherlock appeared unaffected by the perpetual spying. “Did you get the green tick mark?” he asked, not bothering to look up from his mobile or modulate his tone. He used the same commanding voice in the deserted canteen that he employed when the lab buzzed at full capacity.

“Ah…yep.”

“Hmmm… maybe it’s our location. All these concrete columns blocking the signal.” He glanced over at her from under luxurious, almost excessive, lashes. “Send me the same message again via regular chat.”

 _Not a chance._ This time, she knew better and typed a simple ‘It’s Molly’ instead.

“OK. Done. So…em…, Am _I_ being surveilled?” It wouldn’t be the worst thing. She had nothing to hide - except embarrassment. Besides, thousands of electronic eyes already watched over most of London. The idea of one more camera trained on her flat, watching her make tea didn’t sound all that alarming.

Of course, that camera would catch her dancing to Madonna in nothing but her pants and a uni sweatshirt on a rare day off. And expose her ritual of eating pot noodle over the sink after late nights at Bart’s. Or _too late_ nights at The Mouse  & Minnow.

“Are you being surveilled?” he repeated. “No. Not that I’m aware of.” He wasn't inclined to placate her.

“Ah, well, em, what makes you so confident you’d be aware of it if I was?” A logical question - and one that he responded to with an eye roll so loud it rattled across the table.

“Just as I suspected. It’s our location,” he huffed, waving above his head, mobile in hand. “Won’t get anything down here either way. I’ll try to retrieve it again later.”

Not a full-out dismissal but a clear indication that he’d finished with her just the same. Molly weighed the merits of faking a need to have him show her how to use the texting service again ‘just to be sure she’d done it correctly’. She dismissed that thought as conduct unbecoming a smart, professional woman - and a doctor to boot!

He’d done little to endear himself to her today and yet she couldn’t get up and walk out just yet. She didn’t want to leave his company, even for a festive party.

_Even for another man._

She opened her mouth to speak, not sure what would come out. Not caring so long as it gave him a moment’s pause before heading into the night.

“So. Well. Then. I guess you’re… off for… _Cambridgeshire_ soon?”  
  
Molly heard her mouth snap shut, punctuating his question with appropriate shock. Did he just ask her about her Christmas travel plans?

She stared at him, gobsmacked and not a little worried that she'd fallen into an out of body experience.

Sherlock pursed his lips together, no doubt surprised that he’d asked the question. Or maybe appalled that he had.

Either way, it’d be rude not to answer. She just couldn’t make her lips move. “Em. Yep. Yes. Tomorrow. Stretham," she said finally. "Mum’s picking me up from Cambridge Station. She and Kat have some shopping to do. Some weird honeyed mead they want to add to the pud this year so off to the ‘big city’ to hunt it down…” _Oh, Jesus, Molly. Shut. Up!_

“Ah.”

“Yes," she agreed. Did his 'ah' warrant an agreement?

Sherlock fumbled in his pockets, pulled out his gloves.

She fumbled herself, for words to stay his hands. “Em, you? You doing anything jolly for Christmas?” _Jolly? Oh dear, Molly_. 

He stopped fidgeting and glanced up at her. “ _Jolly?"_ he repeated and Molly felt her cheeks flame."Em, _noooo_. Parents. Country. Dinner. Exhausting,” he sighed.

“Ah. Dinner. Ssssounds… lovely.” A broad smile pinched at her cheeks. Sherlock Holmes sounded like any other ordinary, unmarried thirty-something son having to attend to tradition and go home for Christmas.

And that pleased her to no end.

“Do they still have that god-awful queuing system at Cambridge Station?”

Were they in the midst of a legitimate conversation? About something other than lacerated kidneys or cyanide dispersion rates in overweight males?

“Ah, no. All the refurbishments are finally complete,” she laughed. “I forget you went to Cambridge."

“I haven’t.” This time, his eye roll was meant for academia.

“It couldn’t have been all that bad.”

The cocked brow he shot in her direction _was_ all hers. Something in it, however, made her snort rather than stumble. A teensy-tiny sparkle in his eyes. Could’ve been a faint burst of lighting, like the electrical currents that flickered behind clouds when a storm was imminent but still some time away.

Molly preferred to think of him enjoying their conversation as much as she.

“You have an older sister that went there. And you lived not more than, what, thirty minutes away? Why didn’t you attend?” He leaned in, curiosity compelling him to inch forward.

One corner of her mouth kicked up. “Why didn’t _you_ go to the other one?” she countered, knowing full well that his brother had attended the other one.

Sherlock locked eyes with hers, gray and blue and green. Dark and light. He held her there, without challenge or warning, just… _understanding._

He nodded once. “Ah. I see. I’ve answered my own question then."

Somehow he managed to take Molly’s breath away, leaving her with only one syllable and a thousand new reasons to keep him talking.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Sherlock grabbed his gloves and strode toward the exit before she had a chance to recover. Probably for the best given her impending implosion should her original text appear. It’d be ashamed to soil his lovely suit so near Christmas. She watched him move, gliding through pools of overhead light on his way to the elevators. His dark coattails billowed behind him like a standard in a gentle breeze.

Dark sails. A lone sailor adrift on his sea of... loneliness.

A clatter erupted from the canteen service area; the pull-down gate that protected wrapped muffins and fruit from overnight thieves locking into place. She’d missed out on the sausage roll - and succeeded in a _lmost_ making him laugh.

Sherlock Holmes may not be her boy, but she felt they'd developed grounds for kinship in that not-quite-full-blown conversation.

Molly smiled and reached for the tangerine she'd stashed in her lab coat pocket. With any luck, her first text had suffered a dire electronic fate and she’d live to die of embarrassment another day.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered to herself.

A tinny _ping_ echoed through the vacant canteen.

If blood could run cold and also boil one’s insides, Molly’s had.

Sherlock reached into his pocket. He pressed the ‘up’ button at the elevator bank and turned round to her. “Ah. Both of your messages," he motioned with his mobile. “I knew it. Must’ve found the only spot in this whole room that isn’t dead.”

_Oi. Molly. Not so for you. You’re bang to rights._

Hypothermia settled in her chest; blissful death was imminent. The blame for this calamity ultimately rested with Alexander Graham Bell, on so many levels. Damn him.

And damn that beautiful boy with the brilliant blue eyes. She watched him step into the car, head bent, scanning his screen, and the doors snapped shut behind him.

**[FIN for now. Next tune queues up soon!]**

 

### Liner Notes

One could make the case either way - Bob Marley's original or Annie Lennox's cover. But since the story in Song #3 is bracketed by Molly's POV, I went with Annie. She's in a spot of trouble, heart-wise. Our girl is smart, accomplished, and in love. It's easier to call it love-struck or smitten or infatuated... when you are removed from the feeling. She isn't. She's in the thick of it, won't be for some time (ever). So 'love' it is, even as she's keeping a long mental list of his pros and cons.

Sherlock... [time out while this author shakes head]. Harboring unrequited _anything_ for him is a weakness, a pointless exercise. He has no idea that, sometimes, it hurts so good to want so bad. And yet... in spite of Mycroft's warnings about making friends and using residences as boltholes, here he is. Welcome to The Human Experience 101, sir.


End file.
